Curiosity
by Romanoma
Summary: At the bottom of Pandora’s box lies the hope for mans’ soul, even those tainted with hate and hurt and anger. GilxOz


**Curiosity**

Gilbert Nightray was a man of modest tastes. He liked his second hand stove tea-pot, rustic blue, a delicately painted daisy stem winding around the oakwood handle and bursting into petals of pinkish-white. He liked the coffee stain beneath the sofa, seeping like a dark, dirty secret, hidden rather poorly with a tatty red throw that had tassels tiredly sinking to the floor and myriad old cigarette burns that sort of looked like they were part of the pattern. He liked that his furniture was mismatched, mahogany living-room table littered with ash and cream candle wax, elegant dark wood cabinet lifeless in the corner and sagging with the weight of dust and books he had always intended to read.

Aesthetics had never mattered much to him, so long as it felt like home. And nothing made it feel more like his favourite place to be than the boy sprawled across his sofa, the crease of wrinkled blankets on his cheek and the soft tails of wind in his hair. Picture-perfect as the day he fell into Abyss.

Oz Vessalius was not of Gilbert Nightray's tastes. He was sweet and young and fresh, a charming thing with a heart of gold. Blackened by nothing and no one and snoozing carelessly with the knowledge that his faithful servant, his black guard, would always be there to watch over him. Gilbert's opposite in almost every way.

Gilbert brushed ash from his remaining clean shirt - apart from the one Oz was dozing in; the rest were heaped in a grubby pile on his bed - nose wrinkling at the trail of grey left behind like dusty fingerprints. "I need to quit," he murmured to himself, staring at the hot orange tip of his cigarette, watching it fizzle wildly, wantonly. His booted feet were propped up on the table and crossed at the ankles, laces untied, black tongue hanging like a panting dog. Oz had been sleeping opposite him for the last hour, every so often lifting his hand to wipe the back of it under his nose. Gilbert watched with every tick-tock, only ever moving to brew tea and never once pouring a cup for himself. Oz would wake up soon and he would want tea and the master must always have tea first, of course.

Gilbert's sigh sent a whirlwind of ash into the air. Struggling to swallow his surprised cough, his eyes burned with protesting tears in his effort not to wake his master with his smokers' hack. Oz merely pursed his lips for a moment, shuffled onto his side and settled. Gilbert released his heavy breath and sank in his seat, eyes trailing up and down the little body he loved with every ounce of his soul. His ticking clock tattoo brazenly peeped from the collar of his shirt, one hand steady, the other quivering with excited glee. Gilbert stared at the hand with vicious intensity, willing it to move back a notch or to fade altogether. He wasn't surprised when nothing happened.

It should have been an ugly addition to otherwise unblemished skin, but on Oz it was a work of art, even with its torrid spikes and mocking hands, otherworldly ink dripping ever closer to his heart.

Slowly rising, Gilbert skirted around the table to kneel before his master. Every nerve tingling, he lifted his hand to trace the inked time-piece, thrum of dark energy bleeding like tar into his body, clogging his veins with misery and death and hate. The burnt fingers of chains tickled the edges of his soul, all wicked grins and pointed tongues and eyes like empty cosmos. Black feathers ruffled and flittered protectively, Gilbert drawing his finger lower, past the dark tattoo, fourth button easily popping free. His lips betrayed his joy.

Pale, goosepimpled skin, soft, delicate, belying every inch of his nature.

Gilbert stiffened when Oz giggled, mumbling, "Gil, that tickles."

"S-sorry," he stammered, mouth suddenly very dry. Oz moved to pop the next button of his shirt, and then the next after that, parting the soft cotton in a way that could have been obscene.

"What's wrong? Why have you stopped?" Oz asked, voice a sleepy husk. He had a mischievous smile that turned Gilbert's cheeks apple red, hands folding atop his chest. He encouragingly nudged Gilbert's fingers with his nose. Gilbert snatched his hand back and conspicuously shoved it into his pocket, returning to his seat to gracelessly flop.

"Y-You're awake," Gilbert stated, flipping off his hat to fan his hot face. Oz chewed his lip, smile faltering. "H-how long have you been awake for?"

"A little while," he replied, peering over at his dozy servant. He grinned lazily, pinching his cheeks. "You're bright red, Gil. Embarrassed?"

"_Master_," Gil whined tiredly, shoving his hat back on his head. He tilted it down to hide his swelling cheeks. Oz merely grinned wider, folding his arms behind him. "You should go back to sleep, Oz. You don't get enough sleep."

Oz laughed. "Gil, you make me get at least eight hours of sleep at night _and_ you make me nap during the day. That's when you aren't making me eat something," he said fondly. Gilbert sank lower in his seat, tilting his hat down so even his lips were covered. His voice was muffled when he replied, Oz rolling his eyes. "I didn't say it was a bad thing, Gil. You shouldn't be so sensitive. It is sort of cute though. You've always been the same way. "

Gilbert inwardly whimpered. "'C-cute'?" he said, briefly lifting his hat. When he saw Oz was looking over, he shoved it down again. "I am not 'cute'."

"Yes you are," Oz replied simply, heaving up to stretch. Gilbert's hat flopped into his lap in time to catch him, shirt lifting with his arms to reveal the pale, slender expanse of his abdomen only just beginning to strengthen and tone. He couldn't pull his gaze away, absently licking his lips. "You do a lot of cute things. Like that staring thing."

Gilbert snapped his gaze free, nonchalantly scratching his neck. He felt rather hot all of a sudden. When he dared to look back, Oz was smiling and staring, head tilted like a curious puppy. "What?" Gilbert said, feeling uncomfortable beneath that searching look. Oz shrugged. Gilbert swallowed nervously, trying to hold his eyes. His palms felt sticky. "_What?_ Why are you staring at me?"

Oz sighed, his sweet smile fading. "I was just wondering why you haven't kissed me yet, that's all."

Gilbert let out the whooping hack he had held in earlier, his heart tightening like a hand was squeezing it. Bent double, he thumped his chest with his fist, Oz waiting patiently for his answer. He propped his head up on his hand. Gilbert could no longer meet his eyes. "W-why would you want me to k-kiss you?" he replied, dragging a hand through his mop of dark hair. It felt slick and greasy. He felt ashamed to have let it get like this, dedicating so much of his time to only his master. With that thought, he rose to his feet, stating, "I'm going to run a bath and get washed. I'll boil the kettle for tea. Please put it on a low heat to simmer it until I come out, but be careful not to burn you--"

"Gil, I know how to use the kettle," Oz stated softly, waving him away. "Go on."

Gilbert didn't need telling twice, slinking into the bathroom in which stood the only thing in his tiny little flat that he bothered to properly clean, a pristine white porcelain tub standing on four cast iron stands curled like lions' paws. Twisting gold-plated taps, he stripped free of his clothes and slid into the rising water, submerging himself to his nostrils.

"Do you want tea?" Water sloshed over the sides when Gilbert surged from the water to sit up, Oz smiling at him from the doorway as if his servant wasn't stark naked in front of him. Though Gilbert knew his view of him was restricted, he found himself covering his vitals, mortified.

"N-no, thank you, master," he said, hoping Oz intended to close the door behind him. But, he neither closed the door nor indeed, left the doorway. "O-Oz? Do you n-need something?"

"I've seen you naked before you know?" he said cheerfully, glancing down as though the bath was transparent. "Well, when you were my age, anyway, of course."

Gilbert felt embarrassment crawl up his neck when Oz stepped into the room, pausing at the edge of the bath to lean on it. "It's weird, isn't it? I've not seen anything of you between 14 and 25. I feel like I've missed out."

"Y-you haven't missed much," Gilbert mumbled, squeezing his knees together. "C-can I hear the kettle whistling?"

Oz tilted his head. "Don't think so. So, you didn't really answer me before, Gil."

"Answer what?"

Oz flicked his forehead, Gilbert crossing his eyes momentarily. "You _know_ what."

"I don't."

"Maybe you want _me_ to do it."

"Do what?"

Oz sighed heavily, fingers drifting through Gilbert's soggy hair. He curled a lock around his finger, watching it spring when he let go. Smiling faintly, he leaned in, Gilbert's brain unable to process any sentient thought. All he could do was sit there, sopping wet, red-cheeked, moist lips parted and waiting and...

Gilbert had never thought of kissing anyone before, or of having anyone kiss him. Oz's lips were wet. He tasted sweet, like summer fruits and honey. Warm like melted chocolate.

"You taste like cigarettes," Oz stated when he pulled away, brushing his bottom lip with his thumb. From the other room, the kettle wailed impatiently. "Oh! There's the kettle. I'll make you some lemon tea."

Gilbert stared after his master agape and then, feeling blood rush to his groin like a broken damn, he squeezed his eyes shut and slithered under the water, wondering if that really just happened.

~Fin~


End file.
